


eye of the storm

by soundthebells (kosy)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, Everybody Is Moderately Nice To Each Other For Once, Gen, M/M, Post-MAG132, Pre-MAG141? Ish?, Too Kind for Canon Too Mean for Fanfic, martin is in the process of being lonelied. there's no tag for that but it's that, set in the nebulous idea of season four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells
Summary: Three days after Jon crawls out of the Buried with Daisy, there’s a power outage. InCentral London.Something about surprisingly high wind speeds the electric lines of the Institute were unequipped to deal with, something about "maintenance is on its way but don’t hold your breath". Right.The Archives staff can't exactly get fired, so they don't feel all that bad about stopping work for a few hours during an outage.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 17
Kudos: 194





	eye of the storm

**Author's Note:**

> this is originally posted by me on tumblr in response to cursed-lights's prompt "my prompt is 'candlelight' go buck wild'"! i hope you all enjoy :)

Three days after he crawls out of the Buried with Daisy, there’s a power outage. In _Central London._ Something about surprisingly high wind speeds the Institute’s electric lines were unequipped to deal with, something about _maintenance is on its way but don’t hold your breath._

It’s not particularly dramatic when it happens. The light at his desk just goes out, the soft hum of it dying away. For a moment, though, the fear is almost suffocating—the Dark sneaking into the Institute, perhaps, it wouldn’t be the first time an Entity tried to force entry—but he can still see his hands in the dark, scarred and burnt and trembling slightly. He blinks once and then again. It doesn’t dim any further. Everything is just grayish, dull, shaded. Jon shakes his head and pulls out his phone, clicks on the torch. As expected, the room is thrown into relief by the beam of light. There’s muffled talking from the office behind his door, quick and frantic, so he swings it open and finds Daisy, her fist raised to knock. 

She flinches back at the sudden flash of light. “Christ, Jon, get that out of my eyes, it’s—oh. Your torch works?” 

“Seems so.” 

“Probably not the Dark, in that case.” 

Basira gives a short, sharp sigh. “Right. We can get back to work, then?” 

Daisy shrugs. “Computers won’t work, and if you’re using your phone for light, the battery’ll only last so long. So.” 

A grin starts working its way across Jon’s face. “So, maybe not back to work then.” 

“Your tape recorder will work fine,” Basira points out coolly, and Daisy elbows her in the ribs. 

“If the boss doesn’t want us to work, who are we to say no?” 

Melanie glances up from—certainly not work. Whatever she was doing before the outage. “Yeah, ‘Sira.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Basira mutters, but she acquiesces nevertheless. “Alright, fine. I’ve got some candles in my desk. We can—I don’t know. Whatever coworkers usually do during a power outage.” 

Daisy grins at that, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. The expression is unfamiliar on her face, Jon realizes with some discomfort. The way it pulls at the skin of her face, the crinkle of her eyes. It’s not something he sees a lot. Basira gives her a surprised look, fingers flitting up briefly to meet Daisy’s. He wonders if she’s having the same thought. 

“I’ll go get some snacks from the breakroom,” he offers. “No tea, probably, but I think—I _think_ I stashed some chocolate away before the Unknowing that’ll still be good?” It’s an odd thing. Usually there’d be takeout from a late night at the office; it wasn’t uncommon for Martin to order some and stick it in the fridge with the simple word _Jon’s_ written on a sticky note. Sometimes he wouldn’t see it for a few days if Martin didn’t want to interrupt him during one of his endless marathons of study and statements, but it was nice knowing it would be there. If he needed it. But, well. Now if he wanted food, he’d have to order it himself. And he hasn’t been all that hungry lately. 

Jon hopes the chocolates are still there. The idea of them being moved is—upsetting, to him. Somehow.

There’s the faint sound of rain outside and the crack of thunder. It’s soothing in its way. And, he thinks, it’s a good thing. Noticing the weather outside. Remembering what’s worth saving.

The setup is quick and more natural than expected. He _does_ have chocolate stashed away in the cupboards after all, dark and bittersweet (Martin had assumed that was Jon’s favorite all those months ago, walking by a sweets shop on his way back from a lunch break) but also some milk chocolate and caramel-filled (his actual favorite, and God, the way Martin had smiled when he told him that—). He hesitates for a second and grabs both. Daisy pulls some tiny airline liquor bottles out of her desk drawers and flashes him a sharp-toothed smile; Melanie pulls two full bottles of Grey Goose from hers, unsurprisingly. Basira has a set of lit candles stuck in holders scattered across the floor where the other women are sitting crosslegged. They don’t look so angry or scared in the soft, flickering candlelight. The rain beats out a comforting rhythm on the roof stories overhead. It’s just—it’s just nice. There’s no other word for it, but the niceness is so vast in that moment, so overwhelming and tight in his chest, that Jon’s eyes actually begin to sting, so he just clears his throat and tosses the handful of chocolate bars into the center of their little huddle on the carpet. 

“It’s not much, but—” 

“Jon, this is the _good stuff,”_ Daisy says, laughing as she examines the wrapper. “Where’d you even _get_ this?”

He chuckles quietly, uncomfortably. “I, uh. Martin bought it for me? Before we stopped the ritual. It was—it was kind of him. I didn’t know it was expensive, I wouldn’t have let him buy it if I’d known—”

Daisy cuts him off, tipping one of the bottles of vodka his way. “Right, we’re not moping about Martin today, we’ve had quite enough of that.” Jon snorts and pushes the proffered bottle back at her. 

“I don’t drink vodka, Daisy, and I’m certainly not moping,” he snaps back.

Basira tilts her head at him, face as inscrutable as ever. “Wrong on both counts, I’d say. At least for today.” 

_“Basira—”_ but he can’t think of anything to say after that, because she and Daisy are laughing at him in a way that’s gentle but more genuine than he’s heard them sound in, God, _months_ , and even Melanie’s smirking a little, hard and unyielding as her eyes are. They’re all so sharp now. He wonders what they were like before the Institute, before their lives were all twisted up, before their identities were defined by what they did and did not fear. They’re all so sharp now, but so soft here, Daisy once again pressing the bottle into his hands. So he gives a long-suffering sigh, unscrews the cap, and tips the bottle back into his mouth. It burns like hell, _Christ, does vodka have to taste like window cleaner?,_ but it’s a good burn, the kind that reminds you you’re still alive if only because you can still feel pain, and he gulps it down for a long moment before setting the bottle back down on the carpet. 

“You’ve got two bottles of vodka in your desk but nothing to mix it with?” he demands once he feels like his stomach is done churning (oh, hell, he hasn’t eaten anything in ages, the liquor’s going to kick in hard), but Melanie’s properly laughing at him now. 

_“The look on your face,_ Jon, how long has it been since you last drank anything stronger than fancy reds?” 

He scoffs. “I think I did pretty well all things considered!” He attempts to grab for the vodka again, but Basira’s snatched it back and is taking a drink of her own. 

It’s awkward, for a while. They’re not—good at this anymore. At having fun. At talking to people about anything other than the imminent end of the world. But the alcohol does its job, and soon enough Melanie is talking about her time on Ghost Hunt, and Daisy and Basira are jumping in with commentary and stories of their own, and Jon is watching, pleasantly drunk after a couple more swigs and content to spectate. They bicker and joke and tease and share almost like friends, and he can forget, momentarily, that they are trapped. 

“I—hello? Are you all…” The voice from the doorway, rusty from disuse, trails off. “Sorry. I’m interrupting.” 

Basira lifts her head and one of Daisy’s tiny tequila bottles. “Blackwood! Get over here—” 

Nervously, Martin hovers not quite in the office and not quite outside of it either. “I just was wondering if I could borrow some candles. I think everybody else, uh, went home when the power went off, and Elias didn’t seem to keep any candles or anything in his office, so. But it’s, it’s alright really, I’ll get out of your hair. Now,” and he turns to leave, and that’s not—

Jon staggers to his feet, bracing a hand on the nearest desk to steady himself. “W-Wait, M’rtin—” 

Daisy, Basira, and Melanie watch him with something like pity, and he can’t meet their eyes, but Daisy wordlessly offers him an unlit candle which he takes gratefully. Wobbling a little, he manages to make it across the office without too much issue until he’s face to face with Martin, closer than he has been in weeks, and he’s sure he looks like hell and smells like the Grey Goose he’s admittedly been drinking with a vengeance, but Jon can’t be imagining the fondness in his eyes nonetheless, he _can’t_ be.

“Here,” he says, pushes the candle into Martin’s hands, and he can’t be blamed if he curls his fingers over Martin’s and squeezes tight, just for a moment. They’re cold and just a little damp, like he’s been walking through the mist for the last hour. “I have a lighter too,” and he fumbles for it; it’s crammed into his back pocket. “D’you want me t’ light it, or—” 

“Jon, you aren’t in any state to be messing with fire,” Martin tells him, mouth drawing into a tight line. Absurdly, he thinks of kissing him. He knows better, though. It’s weeks, months, years too late for that.

“I’m fine,” he insists, listing forward, and that’s not the drink pulling him in, that’s just—just— 

“Stay,” Jon blurts, too loud, and he has to tip his head back to look Martin in the eyes, and he’s not pleading but even he can hear the desperate edge to his voice, and _Martin, I can’t do this forever, I’m surviving but I think I’m losing the point—_

Martin shakes his head and gently extricates himself from Jon’s grip, and Jon lets him, cannot find it within himself to hold on tighter, but he wishes he could. He wants to warm his hands, wants to warm all of him, wants to grab him in the depths of that gray fog and _pull_ , but. 

He trusts him. He _has_ to trust him.

“I can’t,” Martin whispers, tells him what he already knows. 

Jon nods, and Martin walks away. 

When he gets back to the group, the women don’t mention it. They carry on talking, let him sit back down without comment. There’s still laughter, still friendly arguing. Still the rain and its gentle rhythm outside, the rumble of thunder. Still candlelight flickering at the edge of his vision, lighting everything a faint, ethereal gold. Still that happiness that they’ve fought tooth and nail to hold onto.

It’s good.

He leans the back of his head against a desk, and he pretends Martin is sitting on the carpet next to him, face lit from that warm glow, seeing it too. 

Jon thinks he’d like it. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading folks! i'm still taking prompts here and on tumblr [@boneroutes](https://boneroutes.tumblr.com), if you're interested; i'm trying to get better at jamming out short stuff as i keep writing the second half of "to live through times like these" :) so please send one or two or several if the urge strikes you! thanks again, and please do leave a comment if you feel inclined! <3


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